It's a Metaphor
by Frankie.fleur
Summary: A short story from Gus' Perspective/POV


It's a Metaphor

'Mr. Waters' Dr. Anderson whispered. I looked up slowly, until my eyes fell upon his face, his lips pursed. I knew what he was going to say; his voice was soft, apologetic. "Mr. Waters, I am afraid we are going to have to amputate."  
My mother gripped my hand tighter as she let out a sob - a cry contorted by her attempt to stifle it. I was aware of how difficult it could be to control your body, when your body was not willing to comply. "The Osteosarcoma ..." Dr. Anderson continued, but I had almost zoned out as the doctor explained how the Cancer cells in my bones had spread into the surrounding nerves and blood vessels. My surgery was booked for two weeks time.

My mother clung to me during the hour long drive home from the hospital. She faintly whispered how much she loved me as she stroked my hair. I guess it was nice and I was aware that my mother needed support as much as I did, but I felt suffocated by the certainty of my amputee future. "Gus?" my mother prompted, concerned by my silence "Are you okay?" It was a stupid question. Of course I wasn't okay. I got angrier than I should have done "Of course I'm not okay mom, this isn't an okay situation. How can anything ever be okay again?" My father glanced at me through the mirror, the look in his eye clearly saying "Leave your mother alone, son. She's hurting too."

No one spoke for the remainder of the drive. My mother looked broken, more fragile than I had ever seen her with the exception of the day of my diagnosis. My father was concentrating on driving us home, but I was certain that he felt as broken as my mother looked.

After almost forty minutes of silence, we pulled into our driveway, my mother finally pulling her body away from mine. It was a Thursday afternoon; my basketball practice would start at five thirty. "Gus" my father whispered, holding my mother by her shoulder. "Your sisters are inside"  
"I'm going out" I responded. I needed some time alone "I'm going to shoot some hoops"  
"Gus" my father said, his voice firm.  
My mother adding "Everyone's made an effort for you"

"I don't _care_, mom" I didn't want to be cruel, but I knew I had to be honest. "They are going _to chop my leg off_ in two weeks. _Two weeks. _Won't you please just let me enjoy my last two weeks of having a regular amount of limbs? _Please_?" My parents didn't respond. They looked disappointed. Not disappointed _in me_, disappointed _for me. _I took my opportunity to get in my car and drive the 15 minutes towards basketball practice. I didn't remember the drive. I was 25 minutes early.

After about 5 minutes of waiting, Mike appeared outside of the basketball grounds. I got out of my car."'Gus!" he greeted. "You alright, buddy?" I liked that he didn't treat me any differently after my diagnosis.

"I'm alright" I lied. I wanted to appear normal for as long as I could. I only had two weeks. I sat down on the step outside of the grounds and Mike did the same.

'Want a smoke?' Michael asked, offering the packet of cigarettes, which he often did in an attempt to feel polite. Mike had taken up smoking a few years ago and was aware I'd detested it. I thought about the unfairness of it all.

'Alright' I'd replied. Mike looked surprised. I reached into the packet and pulled out a single cigarette. I was curious to how it would feel on my lips. From what I could make sense of life, it didn't matter whether I smoked or not. It didn't make a difference anymore.

"You sure you're alright, bro?"

I couldn't keep up my brave face. "They're going to amputate my leg." Mike gave me a sympathetic look. "That's harsh, man" he responded. "You want a light for that smoke?"

I'd thought about it. Cigarettes. Sticks of tobacco, I had discovered, had the unfortunate side effect of killing you. "No" I told Mike to answer his question. I placed the cigarette right between my teeth, but didn't light it. Mike remained silenced, but a perplexed expression marked itself upon his face. "It's a killing machine, Mike. Can't you see?" I paused for dramatic effect "And I'm going to place this killing machine right in between my teeth, but I'm not going to light it, you know why? Because I'm not going to give it the power to kill me." I placed the brick coloured end of the cigarette to my lips and found it soothing. I wondered why people needed to light them: I had control. The killing machine couldn't have power over me unless I allowed it to. I win.

3


End file.
